


On the Chimaera

by strange_h3arts



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Silva, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, boat sex?, idk you guys i keep writing porn, the chimaera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_h3arts/pseuds/strange_h3arts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on <a href="http://vaeltaa.tumblr.com/post/43052355389/so-orginally-in-the-early-stages-of-the-script">this</a> tumblr prompt by vaeltaa :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Chimaera

Bond brushes a smudge of dust off of his jacket cuff as he strolls down the length of the dock, yacht after yacht bobbing gently in the harbor. The water is ink-black and glistening in the Shanghai night, illuminated red and orange by the fireworks that burst overhead. Bond smiles to himself- the Komodo dragons had been unexpected, certainly, but nothing that he couldn’t handle. He only hopes that he hasn’t kept Sévérine waiting. 

He spots her boat tethered near the end of the dock: sleek and white, with the word _Chimaera_ stenciled on the side. He climbs aboard without hesitation, noticing that the guards on the upper deck are pointedly ignoring him. Sévérine must have told them that he was coming. For a moment he pities her, trapped on the boat with them like a caged bird; the tattoo on her wrist as effective a restraint as clipped wings. 

The lights are on in the lower cabin, reflecting soft and yellow against the stark whiteness of the ship. Bond follows them down, descending a level of stairs before he reaches the door to her room.

He doesn’t knock- he knows she’s been expecting him. Slowly he opens the cabin door and steps inside, quickly registering Sévérine’s form silhouetted in the light of the bathroom entryway. She’s smoking, the thin cigarette balanced between her middle and index fingers. She turns to look at him as he approaches, and her full lips curl up in a lazy smile.

Sévérine is beautiful, he realizes; even more so without her makeup. Her eyes are dark and almond-shaped, and her hands are delicate, the fingers slim as reeds. Her eyelashes flutter as she raises the cigarette to her mouth and takes a drag, heady smoke pooling from her lips. Bond’s eyes follow the silk of her bathrobe from her bare feet to where it clings to the curve of her breast.

“Mr. Bond,” she says, her eyes soft. “For a moment I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” She extinguishes her cigarette in an ashtray, and the faint smell of cloves washes towards him.

“I don’t like to disappoint,” Bond replies smoothly, descending the few remaining steps to her bedroom.

“I thought so.” Sévérine crosses the floor to stand beside him, and Bond can smell the sweet top notes of her perfume. “I do hope my… _companions_ didn’t make things too difficult for you.”

“No, of course not,” Bond says, and she smiles again, this time with teeth. The effect is dazzling.

“Would you like a drink?” she asks, her accent coloring the words as she lifts the bottle of champagne from its cooler. _Cristal._

“Yes, thank you.” Bond accepts the glass with a smile and takes a sip, the liquid cold and bubbly on his tongue. “Wonderful.”

Sévérine smiles and taps her glass against his own. “What’s the toast?”

Bond pauses to think about it, taking another sip from his flute. “To your employer,” he says finally with a smirk, leaning casually against the marble counter of the bar. “For so graciously bringing us together tonight.”

Sévérine raises her glass demurely, her eyes unreadable. “You may regret toasting him when it comes time to meet him, Mr. Bond.”

“Oh?” Bond raises an eyebrow and drains the rest of his champagne. “I suppose I won’t know until tomorrow.”

“And what shall we do until then?” Sévérine sets her untouched glass on the bar, her lacquered nails clicking against the counter. She smiles and cocks her head to the side, the invitation clear.

“Well. I can think of a few things,” Bond says with a grin, and he steps closer to her, perhaps to capture those red-stained lips in a kiss--but something’s wrong.

Very wrong. Bond stops in his tracks as the world tilts on its axis, suddenly overwhelmingly dizzy. Sévérine steps back, her glass of champagne in hand again- her _full_ glass of champagne. Bond realizes that she hasn’t touched a drop, and his stomach turns in on itself. He should have known.

Perhaps he deserves this, he thinks to himself as the sound of his own heartbeat throbs ever louder in his ears. This isn’t just another notch in the bedpost after all: he’s underestimated her, and it might be the last mistake he ever makes.

“I’m sorry, James,” Sévérine murmurs as he crumples against the wall and slides down heavily on his knees, his vision blurring at the edges. She looks tired and a little sad.

Her next words are soft, almost inaudible:

“I don’t want him to hurt you.”

And then everything goes black.

\--

When he wakes again hours later, it feels like there’s an iron vise around his skull. Bond groans softly as his eyes flutter open, a stab of pain shooting through his temples as the early morning light reaches him from the port window of the yacht. He closes them again tightly, a vein pulsing at his forehead.

For a moment he’s confused. _Where am I?_ he thinks groggily, swinging an arm up to cover his eyes—but something restrains him; a metal circle cutting painfully into his wrist. _Handcuffs._ And then Bond remembers.

“Shit,” he groans, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of nausea washes over him. There had been Sévérine, and the champagne…. drugs. Strong ones, at that.

Without opening his eyes, Bond reaches out a tentative hand to test his surroundings. His fingers close around something soft and silky: sheets. He must be lying on a bed-- _handcuffed to it_ , he surmises none too happily. Still in Sévérine’s room, from what he had glimpsed when he first woke up.

Bond steels himself and begins to shift to the left, testing the boundaries of his restrained wrists. His head screams out in protest, but to his surprise he nearly makes it to the edge of the mattress-- that is, until his leg comes into contact with something warm, solid, and unmistakably alive.

Bond’s eyes spring open, this time without regard for the harsh lighting.

He instinctively jerks his leg away and scrambles back onto the pillows, the handcuffs straining his sore wrists, because _there_ , seated on the edge of his bed, is a man.

Bond’s mind whirls as he struggles to place the stranger among the guards he had seen the night before on the deck of the Chimaera, but somehow he knows that this man is not one of them. This man, he realizes as he takes in his appearance, is not someone that he could easily forget.

He’s blonde; very blonde, Bond notices as his eyes adjust to the light, the shock of almost-white hair a disconcerting contrast to the man’s tanned skin. He’s strong-looking, and the cream-colored vest fitted snugly over his silk red-patterned shirt accentuates the broadness of his shoulders.

The man looks _wrong_ somehow, and Bond’s instincts scream at him to run as the stranger’s full lips part in a broad, toothy smile.

“Hello, James.”

The man’s voice is deep and deceptively soft, and Bond detects the hint of a foreign accent in the vowels. European, most likely, but the hair is throwing him off.

The man shifts closer to him on the bed, and as he moves his facial features finally come into focus in Bond’s still-blurry line of sight. Bond is now certain that he’s never seen this man before: the strong chin, distinctive nose, and heavy-lidded eyes are impossible to misidentify. Coarsely handsome, and yet there’s cruelty in the lines of his face.

And what color are the eyes? Even in the bright light it’s indiscernible, and there’s something vaguely unsettling in that.

The man chuckles softly, most likely at the confusion written clearly on Bond’s face. “So sorry to restrain you this way, Mr. Bond,” he says conversationally, and Bond wonders how the man knows his name- and what _else_ he knows about him, for that matter. “You must think me a rather poor host, hmm?”

Bond just glares at him. “Who are you?” His voice comes out raspy, and he realizes that he’s incredibly thirsty.

“Raoul Silva,” the man says without hesitation. It sounds like a fake name. “I would shake your hand, but seeing as you’re a bit tied up…” He smiles at his own joke. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you who I am, since I know everything about you,” he continues, his face oddly serene.

“I am Sévérine’s employer.”

So this is the man behind the explosion in MI6, Bond thinks, regarding Silva coolly. The cyberterrorist. Outwardly friendly, perhaps, but Bond recognizes the cold intelligence behind the man’s inscrutable eyes: Silva is dangerous.

“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I think we both know why I’m here,” Bond deadpans finally.

Silva throws back his head and laughs, the sound warm yet hollow.

“You certainly cut to the chase, Mr. Bond,” Silva chuckles, shaking his head as he adjusts the gold cufflinks on his sleeves. A Rolex shines ostentatiously on his left wrist. “I like that.” As he talks, his eyes slide over Bond’s prone body in a way that makes the agent feel exposed.

“Although I can’t help but wonder how you’re going to take me down, considering how you’re currently… indisposed,” Silva smirks, glancing at the handcuffs pointedly.

Bond can’t argue with that.

Suddenly, he remembers the radio in the breast pocket of his tuxedo. Maybe, if only he could get his hands free to activate it--

“Oh, and I have this,” Silva adds happily, interrupting Bond’s thoughts. Bond groans inwardly as Silva produces the radio from his vest pocket, teasingly fiddling with the on switch. “I do hope you weren’t planning on using it,” he says with a raised eyebrow, and then snaps the device in two. “Oops.”

_Shit._

“Forgive me, Mr. Silva, but I don’t see your point,” Bond drawls after a pause, hoping for a moment that the man doesn’t see through his façade of confidence.

Silva smiles conspiratorially, and Bond has the sinking feeling that he does, in fact, see everything. “My point is, James, that there is no point.”

Bond frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“I mean that there’s no point in you coming here,” Silva says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. “You could catch me, take me back to MI6 --kill me, even-- but then what would happen next? Another mission, another target, another death for Queen and country… do you know where it ends?” He looks at Bond intently, as if expecting an answer. Bond stays silent, so he goes on.

“I know where it ends. It ends when you die, or when your dear M sells you off at the hands of an enemy. And it’s only a matter of time,” he says, quieter now. “So my question is, why bother? Hmm?”

Bond stares at him incredulously. “Somehow I doubt you brought me here just so you could tell me your personal philosophy on MI6.”

Silva’s face stiffens momentarily, but soon it’s gone and the docile mask is back in place. “Of course, of course.” He chuckles, the sound dry and false. “I know how it is. You never expect the worst until it happens to you, yes?”

Bond scowls. “And if I may ask, how do you know so much about MI6?”

Silva sighs and rolls his shoulders, the joints popping audibly. “You’ll know soon enough. Why don’t you ask M yourself?” he asks with a smirk.

Bond is not amused. “You’re avoiding the question, Mr. Silva.”

“You’re avoiding mine,” Silva replies simply, leaning casually on the bed’s wooden headboard. “I’ll ask it again. Why bother, James? We both know you’re not the shot you used to be…” He raises an eyebrow as he delivers the final taunt, obviously waiting for Bond to snap.

Bond starts to roll his eyes, but stops in his tracks when Silva suddenly moves closer to him- _too_ close.

Silva wants something from him, Bond realizes as he looks up warily at the other man. But for the life of him, he doesn’t know what it is.

A smile playing at the corners of his lips, Silva reaches out to stroke a thumb over the greying stubble on the agent’s chin, his eyes lighting up triumphantly at the surprise registering on Bond’s face. “You’re getting a little old for this spying nonsense, don’t you think?” Silva murmurs, his voice dropping intimately low.

This is new. The man’s clothes are certainly flamboyant, but this…. Bond hasn’t expected this.

The only question is: is he bluffing? Silva’s eyes are dark, and yet the mocking smile still plays on his lips as he strokes the agent’s jaw. Bond holds his breath as Silva begins to undo the top buttons of his dress shirt, shooting him a provocative glance as he moves down the agent’s chest.

It feels like a test, and Bond refuses to back down. He’s been trained for this, he knows he has, but Silva’s unsettling closeness is making it hard to focus. It’s not as if he can fight back, he thinks ruefully, glancing at his handcuffs.

So there’s only one way to play this. Bond meets Silva’s gaze, silently challenging him to go further. How far will he carry the charade- if, in fact, it is one?                                                                            

He stiffens involuntarily as Silva’s cool hand slides underneath the collar of his dress shirt, finding the shrapnel scar on his chest with alarming precision. Silva chuckles, pleased. “You look nervous.”

Bond bites his tongue and frowns, struggling to maintain composure. He _is_ nervous, and he can’t deny it. What does Silva want? 

“You fascinate me, James,” Silva hums as he explores Bond’s now-exposed chest, his fingers lingering on the light blonde hair over his pectorals. “So loyal. Like a dog,” he adds unnecessarily, and removes his hand from the agent’s shirt with a final pat.

Bond glares at him impassively, and Silva gives him an indulgent smile in return. “You’re really making this difficult for yourself,” he sighs, casting a critical eye over the agent’s body. “I just want to know… what makes you tick. Hmm?”

And then he leans in again, slowly now, and he’s too close and he smells like overpriced cologne and his breath is hot and intimate on Bond’s neck. Bond shivers and curses himself inwardly.

“You’ve been getting fucked by England for so many years, it makes me wonder who else you’d spread your legs for,” Silva whispers into his hair, and Bond breathes in sharply because suddenly this isn’t a game any more.

“Is that what you’re planning to do?” Bond replies carelessly, relieved that his voice still has some semblance of normalcy.

Silva just chuckles and unashamedly moves to straddle the agent’s legs, kneeling on the mattress so that the inseam of Bond’s crotch is dangerously close to his own.

 _Nice pants,_ Bond’s brain supplies him dully as he gazes up at the man before him. _Custom tailored._ He momentarily wonders if this is all a dream.

“I don’t know. What do you think?” Silva says finally, and for a moment Bond has no idea what he’s talking about. “Do you deserve it?”

Bond can’t help but snort at the question. “Are you really asking me if I deserve it?”

“Agents… so naïve,” Silva replies expansively, shaking his head slowly as if he’s said something incredibly stupid. “Is this your first time, James?”

Bond isn’t going to answer that.

Silva grins, smug. “Do you want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Not particularly, no,” Bond shoots back, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I’m going to tell you anyway,” Silva purrs, and shifts closer so that his legs are a fraction away from Bond’s groin. Bond tenses as he feels the heat emanating from the other man’s body, uncomfortably close to his most intimate area.

“I’m going to take you apart,” Silva says, and now he’s unbuttoning the rest of Bond’s shirt so that the agent’s toned abdomen is exposed. Silva raises an eyebrow at the sight, apparently pleased.

“I want to know how far your loyalties lie,” Silva says almost absentmindedly, tracing a finger over a bruise on Bond’s ribs. The touch is gentle; horribly intimate, and Bond shivers. “How much can you take before you give in?”

“I want to give you what you truly want… what you need, even if you don’t know it,” Silva continues, his eyes dark now. Suddenly he moves forward to crouch over Bond, his hands bracing his weight on either side of the agent’s pillow. The change is so fluid, almost cat-like, that Bond doesn’t realize he’s moved until Silva is already whispering in his ear, his breath scalding hot on the sensitive skin of his neck. Bond flushes, feeling blood pounding in his ears as Silva’s lips settle on his throat.

“You need this, James. You need me,” Silva murmurs, his teeth grazing the shell of Bond’s ear.

Bond wrenches his neck to the side, trying to escape the insidious voice. “I don’t need you,” he spits, his chest suddenly tight with rage.

Silva only laughs. “Oh, but I think you do.” He glances down at Bond’s crotch pointedly, and with a jolt of horror Bond realizes that the rush of blood hasn’t only gone to his head- he’s completely hard; harder than he’s been in weeks, and his cock is straining visibly against the inseam of his trousers.

Bond can feel himself shaking as Silva slowly draws back down the length of his torso, pausing to brush his lips against his nipple, his stomach, the trail of blonde hair disappearing under the waistband of his pants. He’s so angry that can’t think straight, fury rising in his throat like bile.

Silva smirks as he reaches Bond’s crotch, his tongue darting out to moisten his full lips. Bond gasps as Silva lazily cups his clothed cock with one deft hand, his shoulders screaming in protest as he strains against the handcuffs. It’s too much, and he doesn’t want it, but he’s practically vibrating with pent-up energy and he resists the urge to come instantly as Silva’s fingers encircle his length. Silva strokes him through the fabric, slow and insistent, and Bond realizes that he’s making _noises,_ tiny broken moans that he almost doesn’t believe are his. He bites his tongue, hard enough to draw blood, and Silva smiles.  

“You’re burning up, James,” Silva drawls, squeezing down lightly, but Bond’s sensitive enough that he practically jumps off the bed. “Let’s get you out of these clothes, hmm?”

Bond closes his eyes tightly as Silva’s fingers tug down his zipper, removing his shoes and pulling off the dress pants and underwear with a strange gentleness. “That’s better,” Silva murmurs, and his eyes drop downwards to Bond’s rigid cock. Bond is never ashamed to be naked, but under Silva’s gaze he feels himself flush, suddenly overwhelmingly exposed. He looks away.

“Shh, James,” Silva tuts soothingly, his voice intimate. “Look at me.” He slides a hand under Bond’s jaw and firmly turns his head to face him, a smile playing on his lips. “Now. What would you like me to do?”

And Bond doesn’t know what to say, because there’s no note of sarcasm in his voice. Silva just looks at him calmly, his eyes humored but patient.

“I….” Bond trails off, unsure of whether he wants to laugh or scream. He doesn’t want to leave, but he can’t ask Silva to keep going- he _won’t_ , because that would mean that Silva won. He struggles against the cuffs, suddenly feeling the urge to hyperventilate.

Silva chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “Perhaps this is expecting too much from you.”

Suddenly, Silva dips his head and moves closer to the agent’s cock- close enough that Bond can feel the tickle of his breath on his skin. Bond stares at him, frozen.

Without breaking eye contact, Silva parts his lips and then slowly licks a trail up the length of Bond’s cock, his tongue lingering on the sensitive strip of skin just below his head. He smiles lazily and then gently takes Bond’s tip in his mouth, his full lips stretching obscenely around the head.

Bond makes a strangled noise and throws his head back against the pillow, his hips involuntarily canting up into the wet heat of Silva’s mouth. He can hear his breathing, echoing harshly in the stillness of the room.

Silva releases him with a final swipe of his tongue, catching the bead of pre-come beading from Bond’s slit. Bond shivers violently, a broken moan escaping from his lips.

“Did you like that?” Silva says, almost conversational, but the hint of roughness in his voice betrays his arousal. Bond meets his gaze, noticing that Silva’s pupils are so dilated that his eyes almost look black.

“It’s funny,” Silva murmurs, absentmindedly flicking a thumb over the head of Bond’s cock and smiling as the agent writhes beneath him. “It’s funny how much you remind me of myself.”

“We are nothing alike,” Bond hisses, and groans as Silva’s fingers tighten painfully around his length at the words. Silva only laughs and shifts his heavy-lidded gaze to meet Bond’s eyes, staring at him so intently that Bond feels the need to look away.

“But we are, James,” Silva says, his fingers lingering thoughtfully over a vein near Bond’s swollen tip, testing. “You just don’t know it yet.”

He leans in to bury his face in Bond’s neck again, biting the sensitive skin underneath his jaw as he continues to deftly stroke his cock. Bond shudders as he feels Silva’s tongue lathe over the rapidly forming bruises, hot and surprisingly gentle. He moans despite himself, and Silva smiles against his throat.

 “Turn over,” Silva says in his ear, and Bond doesn’t want to but he obediently does it anyways, wondering when this became his life, because --god-- he _wants_ this. Needs it.

“I’m not going to be gentle with you, James, because that’s not what you really want, is it? You want me to tear you apart,” Silva murmurs, and there’s a note of danger in his voice that Bond hasn’t detected before.

Bond hears the faint rustle of a foil packet and the click of the cap of a bottle of lube from somewhere behind him, and he stiffens, suddenly overwhelmingly aware of what he’s about to do. As if reading his thoughts, Silva cards an affectionate hand through Bond’s short hair, his fingers tracing tiny circles on his scalp.

“Relax,” Silva drawls, and Bond feels the cool slickness of his fingers probe around his entrance. Bond gasps as Silva easily slips inside, working him open and crooking his fingers in a way that sends stars across his vision.

“Fuck,” Bond spits as Silva inserts another finger, the pain suddenly melding into unbearable pleasure. His cock twitches beneath him, leaking against the silk sheets.

“Are you ready, James?” Silva asks, unzipping his trousers, and Bond can hear the distinct note of roughness in his voice. A noise escapes his throat as he feels the blunt pressure of Silva’s cock against him, hot and insistent.

And then Silva takes him, burying his entire length inside with one swift stroke, and it’s too fast and he’s still so tight and it hurts but it’s undeniably perfect. Bond lets out a strangled moan as Silva begins to fuck into him, not waiting for him to catch his breath.

Silva laughs hoarsely from above him, bracing a hand on the bed’s wooden headboard as he claims the agent’s body with every merciless thrust of his hips. The bedframe slams viciously into the wall, chipping the plaster where it hits.

“James, you feel so good,” Silva groans, leaning in to bite at the scarred flesh on Bond’s shoulder, hard enough to break the skin.

Bond writhes helplessly on the sheets, his vision blurring at the edges as Silva hits his prostate with every expertly angled stroke. The handcuffs are cutting into his wrists, but at this point he can’t feel anything other than the raw, consuming pleasure that’s threatening to eat him from the inside out. Silva’s teeth possessively mark every inch of his back, bruising and scratching the skin until Bond is shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

And then Silva reaches beneath him to take his cock in his hand, the calloused touch almost painful against his over-sensitive skin. Bond moans involuntarily and ruts against him, feeling his release rapidly build inside him.

The grip grows tighter and with a strangled sob Bond suddenly climaxes, his cock spasming hotly into the relentless hand and his entire body clenching around Silva’s length. Silva shudders and then seconds later comes deep inside of him, continuing to thrust until it’s too much and he collapses heavily on top of Bond’s back, his breathing ragged.

For a moment they lie there, Silva’s weight hot and too heavy on top of him but there’s a part of Bond that doesn’t want him to leave. Finally Silva manages to sit up, pulling out of his body with a soft moan. Bond winces beneath him, realizing that he’s going to be incredibly sore. He’ll be surprised if he’s able to walk the next day.

He feels boneless. Eventually he gingerly rolls over on his back to look at Silva, who’s fallen silent for the moment.

Silva’s still clothed, but his shirt and trousers are wrinkled beyond repair, and his previously impeccable blonde hair is now hanging disheveled in his face. Bond notices a thick white scar on his chest where the top buttons of his shirt have come undone, and he looks at it curiously.

Silva notices his gaze and smiles unnervingly. “Some scars are hard to hide, hmm?” He rebuttons his shirt, hiding the mark from view.

Silva unexpectedly shifts closer to him and casually leans against the headboard, as natural and intimate as if they’d known each other for years. He absentmindedly traces a hand over Bond’s chest, which is damp with cooling sweat. Suddenly Silva leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Bond’s mouth, and the agent stiffens in surprise because the action is so unexpectedly gentle, after-- after all that.

And then Silva grins against his mouth and bites down, _hard_ , and the taste of iron fills Bond’s mouth as his lip splits under Silva’s teeth.

Silva draws away before he has time to bite back, his lips stained red with Bond’s blood. “It’s been lovely, Mr. Bond.”

He turns as if to leave, but then, as an afterthought, produces a small silver key from his vest pocket.

Bond exhales in relief as Silva unlocks his handcuffs, his arms aching and his wrists rubbed raw around the edges. Briefly he considers lashing out at the other man, but he realizes that he’s too tired and sore to do much of anything.

“We reach port in two hours,” Silva tells him, and without another word he leaves the room, a strange smile lingering on his lips. 

\--

Bond closes his eyes and sleeps, wanting to forget. It almost works, and if he tries hard enough it’s almost as if it never happened.

The only thing that separates it from a dream is the ghost of Silva’s touch, lingering on his body like a second skin.


End file.
